Hands
by Min Daae
Summary: There's nowhere to get away from them...them with their greedy eyes and their touching hands. Warnings for some icky child molestation. YoungKarla fic.


Karla huddled deeper into the closet, knees drawn up to her chest and trembling. It was dark and safe and cool in this little corner of a room where nobody came anymore. Nobody dared. She allowed herself a small whimper and clamped her hands on her thighs, nearly hard enough to bruise, fury and fear tangled almost too closely to tell which was which.

Damn them all. If she were stronger – if she _knew_more then she would give them nightmares for the rest of their lives. If only Morton were here – but then, it was better that he wasn't. If he tried to protect her…she clenched her fists again, digging her nails into her palms. She would not lose Morton, the only family she had left after that "accident" a few months ago.

The first time she'd looked at Uncle Hobart she'd been too stunned, too shaken by that unfathomable loss to register the look in his eyes as he touched her shoulder, her knee, her face, "comforting" her. But now, when he was everywhere, always touching her skin or her shoulder or her neck, his eyes glittering with that horrible hunger that reminded her of a cat staring at a mouse caught in a mouse trap, waiting for it to breathe its last, she felt sick.

But it hadn't been so bad with Morton here. With Morton here, he had only touched, only looked, and it had only been him and his slimy hands that she had to beware of, his kisses too close to her mouth that she had to dodge and squirm away from.

Morton was gone now; Uncle Hobart had sent him away to another court of a friend of his, just for a few weeks, he assured her when she found out, too late to stop him from leaving. No one had told her, keeping her too distracted with frivolous attempts to wrangle her into shopping trips or games with the other children of the village, the children terrified of her. At first she thought it was because she was a Grey Jeweled Queen and a Black Widow in training besides, but now she realized that that wouldn't have mattered…it was Uncle Hobart they feared, and the fact that she was his niece. They knew to fear him.

"I will take care of you while your little friend is gone," Uncle Hobart had said with a smile that showed too many teeth, stinking of peculiar eagerness. Karla twitched and fled, terrified and nauseated beyond reason.

And then it had begun. Every hour of the day, there were males, all around her, always holding her shoulders or touching her body, neck, face, wrists. That was bad enough that she began to try locking herself in, But Hobart refused to allow that, would wheedle and coax her out with soft voiced threats. She stayed out of her room. They were everywhere, always kneeling to her height, talking to her in patronizing little voices that she _despised _and _touching…_she fled when she could, but it wasn't nearly often enough, and wherever she ran to it only seemed there were more of them with their cold, hungry eyes.

The first time one had touched her neck for just a little too long, Karla thought it was an accident. After that she tried to twitch away, but they would hold her still, often capturing her with both hands, caressing her hair or her face and complimenting her eyes with a cheery smile that never changed the eagerness in their psychic scent. She gave up on trying to hide her revulsion and tried to pull away, but their grip would grow painfully tight, bruising her skin in places where the few women she saw would never see them. Then they shifted their touches, brushing her chest "accidentally", running a hand over her hip for just a moment too long. Some of them, the nastier ones, began hugging her far too tightly or asking for kisses that she had to give under Hobart's watchful eyes, kisses that all too often would end with a head turned at the last moment so her lips touched lips instead of cheek.

She ate less and less, vomited up what she ate half of the time, was constantly nauseous. She tried not bathing, but nothing deterred them and Morton didn't come back. The touches grew longer every day, more invasive.

She reached the breaking point when one of them scooped her up and said, "What a pretty little girl," and kissed her on the lips without even the pretense of chasteness, his other hand creeping down to fondle between her legs.

She screamed and lashed out with feet and hands, punching his face and kicking at his groin. He dropped her with a howl and she fled frantically to the gardens, where there were fewer of them. It was not long before Uncle Hobart found her there, sobbing wildly and tearing at the grass, pulling it up by the handful, her icy blonde hair wild and tangled.

"Karla, Karla, Karla," Uncle Hobart said in his smooth snake's tongue voice. "Stop being so difficult. These men are all my _friends…_don't you want to be _friends _with them?"

Karla shook her head, her mouth a tight line, refusing to say anything to him.

Hobart's grin became a little more forced. "Oh, but Karla…imagine what might happen if word got back to the court that Morton's in that you were rude to our guest from there? They might decide to keep Morton for a little longer, to ensure that he can train the bad habits out of you."

Karla froze, her mouth drying out.

"I thought you might see it that way," said Uncle Hobart in a satisfied voice. "I think an apology is in order…for both me and our guest. Now give me a hug and a kiss, Karla dear."

She didn't even try to hide her revulsion as she embraced him reluctantly and kissed his cheek. He just chuckled. She walked stiff backed into the house and apologized curtly before fleeing to her rooms and locking herself in, sobbing helplessly.

Morton, come back, she pleaded, and once, Jaenelle? Jaenelle, where are you?

* * *

She found the rooms the next week, fleeing the crowds of men with their hot hands and hungry eyes. It was silent in the corridor, and when she came to a closed door she tried it, hoping that it might be open, a new place to hide. It was. A slight tingle came through her palm as she opened the door and stepped inside. In a moment, she realized what this must have been.

A Black Widow's study, and there had been only one Black Widow who ever came to this house – her mother. She shivered a little and moved further into the room, touching the dust-encrusted jars, opening cabinets.

The room became her secret. It seemed that no one else could come into it, for which she was grateful, and the closet was small and dark and smelled of her mother, a comforting, safe, smell.

Jaenelle did not come for weeks, but it seemed that sometimes when she was in the room, touching the spidersilk that could be woven into tangled webs, she could almost hear Jaenelle just beside her.

But it wasn't enough to always get away from the men. This evening she had been wandering the halls at night in her sleep-shift, unable to rest, when he'd found her.

He'd grabbed her arm and dragged her into a hallway, his hands touching all over and caressing and making her sick as he kissed her face and neck over and over again, his hands holding both of her wrists so that the bones creaked and whispering in her ear about everything he was going to do to her, everything he was going to make her do –

"They all want first chance at you but it's me who's going to get you, you little bitch."

She struggled, trying to scream around the invisible gag shoved between her teeth, trying to kick and thrash away when she felt the quiet surge of power behind her and the man's eyes rolled up as though he'd been poleaxed and he went limp, She tore free and ran blindly down the halls, sure that any moment he would be following, her wrists bruised and tender all the way around where he'd held her, trembling wildly and sick to her stomach –

She found her way to her mother's room and wedged herself in a closet, trembling frantically and rocking back and forth. "Nevernevernevernevernever," She muttered to herself. "Nevernevernever-" And sometimes she thought of their hands and their mouths and what he had said:

_They all want first chance at you. _

And whimpered. This time she was safe, this time, but next time…a broken witch is a complacent witch. Wouldn't Hobart like to have control of Glacia? She dug her fingernails into her palms and gritted her teeth. _Never._

The door creaked and opened. She froze, her stomach heaving with blind terror.

"Karla?"

That voice, that delightfully familiar voice.

"_Morton._" She breathed, and she was hardly aware of how she made it into his arms, half crying, half gasping, squeezing the air out of his lungs. "Morton, I want you to do something for me," she said, her head buried in his shoulder.

"What?"

"Cut my hair," she said fiercely. "Cut it short. I don't want long hair anymore."

He stared at her, but he was already nodding. "Okay, I'll ask Uncle –"

"No!" She said, nearly a scream. "No, no, don't ask him. Just do it yourself – I don't care how it looks."

He paused. "Karla?"

"Just do it," she snapped, stepping back and clutching her upper arms. _Never never never. _

He nodded slowly and opened his arms for another hug. She stepped into it without thinking of hesitating.

"I'm glad you're back," she murmured thickly.


End file.
